


Leveraging the Odds

by Morfinwen



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Leverage
Genre: AU, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 18:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7280446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morfinwen/pseuds/Morfinwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rich and powerful Capitol takes what it wants. To survive the Hunger Games, you need ... leverage. May the odds be ever in your favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nathan Ford

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter (except the epilogue) contains 10 drabbles:  
> * Reaping  
> * Train  
> * Mentor/Escort  
> * Stylist/crew  
> * Training  
> * Interview  
> * Games, part one  
> * Games, part two  
> * Games, part three  
> * Post Games

_Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be_ ever _in your favor!_

 **** _49th Hunger Games  
_ _Name: Nathan Ford  
_ _Age: 16  
_ _District: 5_

 

Stairs, twelve of them. The third, fourth, eighth and ninth ones creak when he steps on them. Why hasn’t anyone replaced them?

The crowd is a blur, their applause a roar in his ears. Some are cheering. He wonders if Jim is one of them.

Six people on the stage. One is passed out. Two are glaring at him. They probably know his father.

He had plans for every contingency, but not this one. He shakes her hand automatically, sees the disgust in her eyes. The fear.

“District Five, your tributes: Avolee Marsh and Nathan Ford!”

_This can still work._

***

He calculates, trying to factor in the early experience of the “Careers” against his own intellect, but the unknowns pile up too high for him to make any headway. He slumps back in the chair, defeated.

The rich supper is still laid out on the table, and the escort is playing with his silverware. Bored. One of the previous victors snores softly, shifting unconsciously in his chair. Drunk. Another watches the screen, lips pursed. Angry.

He can read their faces like so many books; something his father taught him, whenever he took him along on “business”.

He hates his father.

***

Claudo Loupolis is a ridiculous name, but not so ridiculous as the man himself. He speaks so high his voice is nearly a squeak, and his pronunciation is always wrong. The man preens himself like a peacock, never letting his ringlets go astray or his clothing wrinkle. He dyes his hair blue. Seriously, blue?

Jonas Calliox drinks, constantly, but he’s the only one of the victors who doesn’t hate him for who his father is.

“You’re a fighter, boy,” he says the first night.

“You think I can win?”

“Win, boy?” He snorts and pours himself another glass. “Nobody _wins_.”

***

Tullia Albus has been District 5’s designer for six years. Her skin is dyed fuchsia this year, with ivory vines tattooed over her arms. She purses her lips when she looks at him, frowns in thought as she studies her drawings, and bites her lower lip in concentration as she works; but she never smiles.

His prep team works on him like one of the machines in his district. They squeal to each other like animals as they clean him, make-up him, and dress him up like a doll.

“I feel like a Christmas turkey,” he tells them.

They laugh.

***

He impresses no one with his physical prowess, but then, he isn’t really here to train. He’s here to study them.

He moves from station to station, getting close to each of the other tributes. Noting their strengths, reading their faces, even planting an idea or two in a few cases. The “Careers”, with their false friendships, secretive sneers and hidden alliances, are almost too easy to manipulate.

Then he says something District 12’s girl tribute, just thirteen, takes as an offer of friendship. The look on her face makes him sick. Because if he’s going to survive, she can’t.

***

He knows he’s being difficult. He won’t talk about his family, his girlfriends, or his district. When asked what’s his favorite part of the Capitol, he shrugs, and blinks when asked about his hobbies. Caesar moves quickly away from his low Gamemakers session score, and queries him on his opinions of fellow tributes - “District 4’s tributes are kinda tall, aren’t they?”

This approach won’t win him many (any) sponsors, but he doesn’t care. They can keep their money, spend it on their outlandish outfits and cosmetic alterations. If he’s getting out of this alive, he’s getting out on his own.

***

Nate smells it first; fetid water, moss, mud, and rot. Then he can see the Cornucopia on a small patch of solid land. Each base stands in something that is either water or mud, and a few feet away trees with enormous roots surround them.

At the buzzer, he jumps into the thick mud and heads for the trees, pausing to grab one thing. He ducks behind a tree, and waits.

The numbers thin, and the Careers gather. Then a knife sinks into the back of District 1’s boy.

They stop, slowly turn to stare.

Nate grins. “Can I join?”

***

They listen to him; mostly because he listens better than any of them.

He lets them take the kills, mostly stays back at camp and watches their supplies. He listens, and he sees, and he tells them what they want to hear.

They don’t really believe him, but he doesn’t want them to - their paranoia works for him and against them, makes them unstable, easier to move them the way he wants. Ironically, their suspicions of manipulation open them to further manipulation.

And if they don’t really trust him, then he is not betraying them when he gets them killed.

***

He kills the last one.

District 4’s girl tribute is fifteen. She says the least, scowls the most, and never eats anything she can’t dip in that strange reddish sauce. She is quick with a knife, and deadly with a spear, but she always hangs back in the hunts. She never believes a word he says.

Thanks to Nate’s whispers in his ear, District 2’s boy kills District 4’s over her, suffering a fatal wound in the fight. She returns alone to the camp, and watches him like a hawk as they eat.

She should have been watching that sauce.

***

It’s his twenty-fifth Games as a mentor, so he has another drink. It’s the first Games since his wife left him, so he pours another one. It’s the second since his son died, so he empties out the bottle and gets another one.

District 5 might have another winner this year; maybe. The girl is smart, a quick-thinker, a loner. If he can get her sponsors, and she can stay far enough away from the fighters, it could work.

“You think I can win?” she asks.

He snickers, feels tears as memories press in, pours another glass. “Nobody ever _wins_.”


	2. Sophie Devereaux

_Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be_ ever _in your favor!_

 ********_55th Hunger Games  
_ _Name: Sophie Devereaux  
_ _Age: 14  
_ _District: 1_

 

Sophie Devereaux, or whatever her name is today, has never held a weapon in her life. She lives on words, smiles, secrets. She is an actress, and this is her biggest act.

She was seven when they lost the house but she still remembers Mama’s beautiful dresses, Papa’s art collection. She remembers when she didn’t sleep in the community home, wearing somebody else’s discarded clothes. When she didn’t have to become someone new every week.

In a few weeks, she will be much closer to her old life than Papa’s cons have ever gotten them, or dead. Either one works.

***

There are a lot of people on the train.

There are twelve previous victors, the other tribute Topaz Muldoon, and the escort Julius Mayweather; not counting staff. She is not alone, not for one minute, not even in her bedroom where there are cameras, but she’s used to playing a role for days at a time.

She plays a victor on her way back to the Capitol simply for pleasure: confident, pampered, poised, serene, secure, already bored with luxuries her family has never afforded, always self-possessed, never a hair or word out of place.

Sometimes, her fear almost suffocates her.

***

The second day, she chooses Pearl Havens as her mentor. She’s blonde, chitters like a bird, wears shirts with too much fringe and skirts made out of feathers, and puts syrup on everything, but she understands people. She tells Sophie about Capitol fashions, and points out the best dishes on the table.

Julius Mayweather laughs, all the time. It’s a pleasant enough laugh, but she hears it so often she begins to hate it. He constantly makes funny comments about everything, like they’re all friends. Sophie wants to shove a shoe down his throat, but that wouldn’t be in character.

***

Bellona Leedbrooke is the best stylist in the Capitol. She has a waiting list of ten thousand names, and makes over a million outfits in a single year. Her design for the opening ceremonies this year is stunning; when it’s put on her, Sophie feels like she is literally encased within a diamond. Every facet glitters, reflecting light everywhere she turns.

Every dress she gives Sophie is like a gem: they shimmer and gleam, drawing all the eyes in every room. At first, she wishes they would look anywhere else. Then she realizes, they aren’t seeing her - just the sparkle.

***

District 2’s Mace Claymore claims her on the first day of training, coming behind her at the archery station and physically correcting her aim. Swallowing the bile, Sophie stares at him with undisguised admiration.

“You’re very strong,” she marvels, gently feeling his muscled arm.

“I work out,” he answers, showing all his teeth when he smiles.

She leans lightly against him. She can feel his heartbeat, and his breath stirs her hair. Her forehead rests on his cheek. “I’m _so_ scared, Mace,” she barely whispers.

“Don’t worry.” He pulls her to him, tightly. “I’ll protect you.”

_Of course you will._

***

Her stomach constricts on itself as the lights bore in through her eyes. The man with green hair and clownish make-up laughs too loud, and she wants to disappear through the floor more than she’s ever wanted anything. But she laughs when he laughs, smiles so that her teeth show, leans forward eagerly.

“Can you give us a hint on your strategy?” Caesar asks.

She widens her eyes, shakes her head quickly. “Oh no. I can’t give up my secret weapon.”

“Oh, just a hint,” he coaxes.

Sophie tosses her dark hair, smiles enigmatically. “Just wait. It’ll be worth it.”

***

She is carried up to the arena, and gasps as a wave of boiling heat sweeps over her. She finds herself staring at sand everywhere, except for a patch of green land, a lake and the Cornucopia. A hot wind whips sand into her face, stinging her eyes.

The gong sounds, and most tributes sprint for the Cornucopia. She runs for Mace. He kills five people, one when she gets too close to Sophie. When it’s over, he turns to her, smelling of sweat and blood; mostly blood.

“You were _wonderful_ ,” she whispers.

When he kisses her, she tastes blood.

***

She doesn’t kill them. She doesn’t play them. She woos them.

Pearl must have found her sponsors, because she receives things regularly; but she shares what she gets with her allies. She flatters the boys, with wide eyes and glowing compliments. She befriends the girls, saying the right words at just the right moment to win their trust.

It’s working, and she feels safe for the moment; but it won’t be long before they run out of tributes to hunt. Then it will be every man/woman for him/herself.

She’s proved she can charm them. Can she _kill_ them?

***

She can’t. But she doesn’t have to.

The one thing Mace Claymore wants more than anything is the respect of his father. And when Sophie knows what someone really, truly wants, she can do anything with them.

She persuades him to protect her. She charms him into hoping someone else will kill her first. She talks him into taking on Topaz alone.

And as Topaz stops gasping, and Mace’s thigh gushes blood, she assures him that his father’s respect would be nothing compared to her undying love.

Her tears aren’t for Mace. They’re for the girl she used to be.

***

She sleeps every night in a luxurious bed, occasionally her own. She has her own house, with entire rooms devoted to clothing, shoes and priceless works of art. She hardly remembers the common house, or the “games” Papa had them play.

But her games have never ended. Every year, she must become Sophie Devereaux again, the carefree, charming social belle who revels in the centerpiece of luxury that is the Capitol. Every year, she must pretend that this is what she always wanted.

Every year, the scared little girl who just wanted to go home again dies a little more.


	3. Eliot Spencer

****_Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be_ ever _in your favor!_

_61st Hunger Games_  
_Name: Eliot Spencer_  
_Age: 18/19  
_ _District: 10 (Livestock)_

 

This is his last reaping.

In five days, he turns nineteen, and his name will never again be dropped into that bowl on the stage. He’ll never have to stand with the other boys, getting pushed around and laughed at by those taller than him, and feel that dreaded chunk of ice settle into the pit of his stomach.

The woman steps up to the platform, every curl on her damned wig perfectly aligned, and reads the girl’s name first. It isn’t his sister or Aimee Martin, and he feels himself relax.

_ Last time _ , he reminds himself.

“Eliot Spencer!”

***

The train flies, and the anger burns.

The anger is like a fire, feeding on the very air around him. No matter how hard he tries to ground it under his heel, it keeps burning, keeps eating at him, keeps threatening to break out. 

He shouldn’t  _ be _ here.  None of them should be  _ here _ . 

The rumbling of the train can’t drown out the thoughts in his head. He wonders what his father is thinking, if his mother is crying, where his sister has hidden herself now, if Aimee …

He’s not going to take this lying down. He’s going to win.

***

Does  _ anything _ rattle this woman?

He glares, he sneers, he growls, but Felicia Ravensfield just keeps smiling beatifically. “Eliot, I’m trying to  _ help _ you,” she says in her sing-song voice. He’s pretty sure she’s lying, but at least she’s a convincing liar.  “Now come on,” she coaxes, clasping her hands together. “Try a smile!” 

Eliot pulls his lips back and lets a few teeth show. Felicia squeals delightedly, and claps. “Oh, they’re going to  _ love _ you!”

She’s more helpful than his “mentor”, Flip Meldata. The former victor is seventy-two, corpulent and addicted to morphling. 

Eliot swears that won’t be him.

***

Eliot tries to tell Cassia Clovefetcher that no one in District 10 dresses like this, but she won’t listen to him. She and Felicia have worked out his entire wardrobe, reality be damned. At least the “leather pants, cowhide vests and cotton shirts” market benefits from it.

What he hates more is what they do to  him : wash his hair with scented soap, style it, perfume him, paint his face and pluck hair from places that really should be left alone. They insist it will help him in the arena.

Maybe, but he’s not wearing that stupid “cowboy” hat.

***

Felicia gives him strict instructions on how to act during training. He is to be friendly and polite, play up his country dialect, smile whenever possible (particularly at the girls), express surprise at anything unfamiliar, and not be too good at any of the weapons. Eliot would rather gargle with battery acid, but he obeys.

He hates playing the idiot, hearing the other tributes laugh at his accent, losing out on the opportunity to train with real weapons. The anger builds, but he harnesses it and stores it away for the arena. Whatever Felicia has planned, he’s gonna need it.

***

Eliot doesn’t think he can do “charming”, but Felicia is adamant, so he tries. He laughs at Caesar’s abysmal jokes, smiles constantly, and uses the ridiculously overstated accent she had him work on for hours. After the high training scores and violent boasting of the Careers, he probably looks like a brainless weakling.

Then he slips up, mentions music, and Caesar pressures him for a song. He can see Felicia in the front row, nodding furiously, and wants to scream. He sings some old song, about roses, violets and wind in the valley.

The crowd’s cheers drown out the buzzer.

***

Eliot shoots up into the arena, and finds himself in an open field. He looks in every direction, but sees no trees, no mountains, no lakes, just endless grasslands and rolling hills. Hiding from the competition won’t be easy here, he realizes, and really smiles for the first time.

There’s a water bottle and thick cudgel among the Cornucopia’s treasure trove; he doesn’t bother looking for anything else. He locates the more dangerous tributes in the circle, and braces for the gong.

No more charming “country boy”. No more slack-jawed admiration. Time for the real Eliot Spencer to show up.

***

What really gets him is how  _ surprised _ they all are.

It isn’t like faking idiocy is a new strategy in the Games, and with every outfit Cassia designed for him highlighting his muscles, he would have thought  some of them would get it. But every time he finds one of them, wandering alone and unprepared, they laugh at him and wave their weapon around like they actually know how to use it.

He’s from  _ District 10 _ \- he spends hours in fields like this, chasing off predators and wrestling with stubborn animals twice his size.

The surprise never lasts very long.

***

By the third day it’s down to him and District 1. They’ve teamed up, and it looks like they really can wield their weapons. But in the end, proficiency isn’t everything:

_ Location _ matters (he lies in wait by the last stream).

_ Speed _ matters (he’s on the girl’s back before they see him).

_ Strength _ matters (he twists her head sharply and hears it snap).

_ Accuracy _ matters (the boy swings viciously, missing by a mile).

_ Adaption _ matters (he grabs the girl’s spear, and impales the boy through the stomach).

It’s not what you have. It’s what you do with what you have.

***

It’s taken him fourteen years, but he’s finally figured out why there’s a victor.

He’s not sure when that indefinable something in him first cracked, but every year it cracks a little more, letting more of that indescribable part of him slip out. Some of it went to the lovers, some of it died with the kids. He lost more the nights the faces of those he killed kept him awake. Most of it left when his family pulled away and Aimee left.

Twenty-three dead tributes whisper a reminder, but a living, broken scarecrow of a man screams a warning.


	4. Alec Hardison

_Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be_ ever _in your favor!_

_63rd Hunger Games_  
_Name: Alec Hardison_  
_Age: 15  
_ _District: 3 (Technology)_

 

He isn’t used to hearing his name. He’s the quiet one, the one standing off to the side, the one busy at work with nothing to say and nothing to be asked. The last one picked, the last one thought of, the last one suspected. 

But he hears his name, and somehow knows what to do without really thinking about it. He stumbles on legs that are too long up steps that are too shallow, and finds himself on the stage, introduced as District 3’s tribute.

Alec stares, heart thumping, mouth dry, thoughts racing; and hundreds of eyes stare back.

***

The train is wicked fast. In any other situation, it would thrill Alec beyond belief to be experiencing something like this, but he can only think that the faster the train reaches the Capitol, the sooner he gets gutted on live television.

The luxuries of the train are unbelievable. Not that he’s enjoying them. He can’t sleep, doesn’t talk, and eats almost nothing. If given the chance, he would gladly trade the endless varieties of food and soft mattress for one more night at home.

At night, he tries to hack into the communications array, call home just once more.

***

Appius Poloriotus unnerves Alec; he has purple tattoos all over his face, his hair is a freaky shade of white, and whenever he laughs he sounds like he’s choking. Until last year, he was the escort for District 12, and he talks constantly about how wonderful it is to have District 3 instead. 

Beetee looks like most people from District 3; ashen skin, black hair. But he can answer all of his questions about electronics - on the train, in the Capitol, what he might find in the Cornucopia. Alec’s chances of winning still aren’t that good, but he feels better.

***

Benito Filigree is short and round, with long gray hair and circular spectacles; he claims the spectacles add “character”. He also has a fascination with electricity that he pours into his designs. There are wires everywhere, parts that move, and batteries that he very sternly warns them not to touch. Alec sometimes wonders if the clothes will kill him before he even makes it to the arena.

His prep team declares him “adorable”. They ask him questions, laugh delightedly at his answers, squeeze his shoulders and slip him sweets while they work. Alec wonders if they’ll cry when he dies.

***

The idea of weapons training is so ridiculous Alec could almost laugh at it. He can barely hold a sword, misses the dummy by a mile when he throws a spear, and as for lifting a mace, that is just not happening. He spends an hour with a bow and arrow, then gives up when it’s clear he’s not going to make significant progress.

He sits alone at the lunch table, staring at the bigger, stronger tributes, the better prepared Careers, the beautiful, charming ones likely to find sponsors. He wonders which one of them is going to kill him.

***

If he had to pick, Alec would probably choose the interview as the worst part.

He waits for his name to be called, heart hammering in his chest and palms sweating. When his name is called, he stumbles onto the stage, all long legs and no coordination. Then he sits on a couch, and all of Panem is watching  him .

He pretends to be confident, but they can see through it easily. He isn’t strong, or quick, or charming, or smart; not in the ways that count. He’s not a threat to anyone in these Games, and everyone knows it.

***

The clothing they give him is  warm . There are mitts, a hat, a scarf, boots, socks, thick pants, a shirt, a sweater - all lined with soft material that has him sweating within minutes. He has never been so warm in his life. At least he’ll die comfortably.

Then he’s shooting up into the arena, and suddenly he’s freezing. Snow covers everything, and the weapons are buried in it. His breath freezes when he exhales.

The gong sounds, and the others sprint for the Cornucopia. He runs the other way, waiting on edge for the killing blow. It doesn’t come.

***

Years living in community homes and with foster parents has taught him a lot about conserving food, keeping warm, and staying under the radar. The experience must be paying off, because he has no idea how he’s still alive otherwise.

The Gamemakers make a few efforts at amping up the tension, but it is just too freaking cold to do much good. Those lucky enough to find one of the few heating elements remain huddled by them, hoping to feel  _ some _ warmth before they die.

And Alec remains huddled by his makeshift generator, made of wire and re-purposed electronics, waiting.

***

There’s gotta be some mistake, he thinks at first.

He’s been watching the Hunger Games long enough to understand how it works. The tributes are locked into an arena with a little food and a lot of weapons, and they start killing each other. Two of them prove better at killing (or at least not dying) than the others, and when they’re the only two left, they fight each other. And the victor, usually bloody, is declared the winner.

All  _ he’s _ done is attach some wires together, drink snow and nibble on preserved food; but they’re declaring  him the winner.

***

After eleven years, he’s under the radar again.

There are better-looking winners from “classier” districts, who charmed, fought or outsmarted their way to victory, whose Games kept viewers in suspense. Victors like him are left on the wayside, forgotten.

But he hasn’t forgotten the terror of those weeks, or the faces of the kids he’s seen go to their deaths.

After the arena, he’s learned there are things scarier than death. So he joins the revolution, striking out at the Capitol from the shadows they’ve created: who would suspect District Three’s accidental victor? 

They’re going to play  his games now.


	5. Parker

_****Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be_ ever  _in your favor!_

_64th Hunger Games_  
_Name: Parker_  
_Age: 13  
_ _District: 11 (Agriculture)_

 

No one has ever caught Parker.  Ever .

Not the people in the community home, not the Peacekeepers, not anybody. They can’t even come close. She can scale walls, cling to ceilings, slide through holes and curl up so tightly she can hardly be seen. It’s the only reason she’s still alive.

Then she hears her name from the woman on the stage, and when she tries to run, the Peacekeepers grab her. They drag her, screaming, kicking, flailing, biting, onto the stage for everyone to stare at. They hold her up, like a wild animal in a cage.

Trapped. Caught.

***

The train is fast, faster than she’s ever run, ever seen  anyone run. The trees go by so fast it makes her head hurt.

The train is like a cage. Everywhere she goes, there are walls; windows that won’t break, doors that don’t open, Peacekeepers who drag her back whenever she tries to escape.

The train is like a dream. There’s a bed so soft she can’t fall asleep on it, more food than she has ever seen in her life, with clothes that  _ shine _ . 

The train is like a coffin that carries the dead to their final resting place.

***

Parker has often heard people call her “strange”; she thinks they must not have met Augustus Blathersbye. He has strands of silver in his hair, silver whiskers surgically implanted underneath his nose, and silver tattoos everywhere. His voice sounds like a squealing metal door.

Her mentor is Archie Leach, District Eleven’s first victor. He’s old, and walks with a cane, but he’s clever. He’s always the first one to find her, whether she hides under the table or in the ventilation shafts. “You have talent, kid,” he says. “Shame to waste it on the Games.”

“Help me win,” she retorts.

***

_ Don’t fight don’t run don’t move _

Deedra Valleybend has enormous teeth that don’t reflect, but  shine . Her eyes are too big, too round and too deep-set in her head; and they’re  _ orange _ . 

_ Don’t fight don’t run don’t move _

The prep team surrounds her, all flash and color and giggling, talking nonsense in squealing voices as they touch her, paint her, change her.

She shuts her eyes and clenches her jaw so the scream doesn’t come out. Archie told her “Don’t fight them”, and only Archie is going to get her home; so she obeys.

_ Don’t fight don’t run don’t move _

***

It’s hard to resist the sheen of the swords, but Archie told her to leave the weapons alone. Parker sits instead at the rope-tying station, knotting length after length of rope. She’s good with ropes.

Some of them are really good with weapons (she’s good at watching secretly). The boy from District Six is particularly good, but she doesn’t like the look in his eyes. It’s too much like the one she’s seen in cats hunting mice.

No one thinks she’s going to last long: she’s too young, too fragile. So they ignore her.

That’s how she’s going to win.

***

Caesar Flickerman doesn’t seem to know what to ask her. Parker tried to answer his questions like Archie said, but no matter what she says, the crowd just makes uneasy noises.

“What’s your favorite part about staying in the Capitol?”

“Sleeping in the ventilation shafts. I sleep better upside down, but the noise is nice.”

“What do you think of your fellow tributes?”

“The boy from District Four holds a sword like it’s a tomato.”

“Do you think you’ll win?”

“Maybe. If I stay away from Titus long enough, he’ll kill everyone else. Then I can poison him or something.”

***

Parker stares longingly at the packages of supplies, the shiny weapons. But Archie has given her strict instructions not to touch them; yet.

When the gong sounds, everyone runs for the Cornucopia like she’s seen dogs run for meat. Titus grabs a sword and starts slashing. One girl picks up a knife, another picks up a bow and arrow. Two boys fight over a backpack, until one of them starts screaming and falls.

The winning boy runs for the trees. She runs after him, so quiet he will never hear her. If he dies soon, she can have his backpack.

***

Parker isn’t scared; not really.

The traps in the forest are easily recognizable, once she sees a few other tributes trigger them. The Careers set up traps and guards to protect their supplies, but she disabled tougher security systems when she was nine. And their attempts to catch her are adorable.

Then she comes back to find the guard on the ground, most of his blood on the outside of him. Titus is bending over him, holding a red sword. He’s chewing something.

Then she sees the boy is missing a finger.

She runs, but she’s not scared. Not  _ really _ . 

***

There’s only one Career left (well, technically two, but the way she cut the other boy, he doesn’t count), so it shouldn’t be strange to find the camp unguarded. But Parker smells a trap.

Her stomach growls, reminding her she needs food, so she breathes deep and enters it quickly. She puts two cans into her pack, then turns to run - straight into him.

“Going somewhere?” He shoves her to the ground and towers over her, laughing.  _ Silly little girl, _ his laugh says.  _ Puny things like you don’t win the Games. _

Her answer is quick:  _ Little girls with knives do. _

***

They caught her once, and she’s still trying to run.

She still eats what she can find, sleeps in places she picks, but every year they still take her, dress her up, and try to make her play nice for their cameras.

This year’s girl tribute is young, little, and frail - like she was. Parker refuses to mentor her. Most likely she’ll die in the first day. But even if she doesn’t, even if she wins, winning will just make her turn out like Parker: cold, broken, friendless, alone. Trapped.

They caught her once, and they never let her go.


	6. Epilogue

_Fire is catching! And if we burn,_ you burn with us!

 

They say taking down the Capitol is impossible, but she knows better. After all, the community home headmaster thought it was impossible for her to break into his office and take his keys. The Peacekeepers thought it was impossible that anyone could hide in the gaps underneath the porches. Other kids thought it was impossible to climb trees that fast. Everyone thought it was impossible for there to be two winners in the same year, much like they thought it was impossible for a rail-thin thirteen-year-old to win the Hunger Games. Maybe “impossible” doesn’t mean what they think it means.

So she unlocks the doors with the perfect locks, crawls in the places nobody can fit in, evades the security measures that catch everyone, climbs the walls no one can climb faster than it’s possible to climb, and becomes the thief who steals the impossible.

And at the same time, she finds the pieces she thought nobody could put back together are a little less broken, a little less lost, a little less “strange”. She has people - _friends_ , maybe even family, who care the way she thought it was impossible for anyone to care.

“Impossible”? What do they know, anyway?

\----

They say he’s an idealist, but he knows better. He’s an optimist, sure. Somebody has to keep their spirits up, and it isn’t going to be Eliot (if he ever found a ray of sunshine, dude would try to whack people with it), Nate (miserable when he’s drunk, and he’s always drunk), Sophie (too busy trying to keep Nate out of the gutter) or Parker (who’s … Parker).

There’s an old saying his nana used to recite about how all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. He doesn’t know if a few good men and women doing something is enough to end it, but if children getting murdered on live television isn’t enough of a reason to try, nothing is.

Maybe it’s a little naive to think they can all work together - this ragtag collection of underground resistors, Capitol defectors, oppressed citizens and broken victors. It’s definitely crazy to think they can take on the Capitol. If he had joined the revolution because he believed they could win, then he would be a little more than crazy.

With a team like this behind him, though, sometimes he starts thinking a little crazy.

\----

They say he’s the strongest out of all of them, but he knows better.

You need someone to take out a guard or five or break down a door, he’s your man. If there’s a mission that needs someone who can stand harsh conditions, bad odds, and keep their mouth shut even in the face of death, he’s a better choice than most. It’s not a strength most people possess, but it’s not the only kind worth having.

Like the kind of strength it takes for a kid with all the brawn of an oak switch, who won the Hunger Games by the skin of his teeth, to take on the _Capitol_. Or the kind that supports a woman giving up everything for the craziest cause in history. Or the kind it takes to get out of bed and do  anything when your own child’s been taken from you. Or whatever it is that’s holding Parker together, whether it’s her special band of crazy or pure stubbornness; they’re all made of sterner stuff than anyone he knew before.

He can be the kind of strong they need, so long as they’re there to give him the strength to keep going.

\---

They say she holds them together, but she knows better.

In a rare moment of honesty (brought on by about four glasses of a particularly potent wine), Pearl described her life as skiing ahead of an avalanche: trying to keep her balance while traveling at breakneck speed, staying ahead of a wave of destruction that will inevitably wipe her out ( _just not today. Please._ ).

Some days it feels like an avalanche. Other days, it feels like she’s trapped in a costume parade and she can’t get out. And some days it feels like she’s lost herself in all these parts she’s played and she will never be able to piece herself together again. She’s as broken as the worst of them, she just hides it better.

Then one of them walks in, with an argument to be sorted, a concern about a team member, or needing a listening ear, and she steps into yet another role - referee, counselor, confidant, friend. She’s playing the same game, but the rules are a little different now. It isn’t just the other person who leaves feeling refreshed.

They wonder what they would do without her. She knows what she would be like without them.   
\---

They say he drew them together, but he knows better.

He knows what they must see when they look at him: a bitter, shattered man with nothing to live for and little to die for, feeding the fury and hatred with alcohol and fantasies of revenge. He has no idea what they see in him that keeps them here.

Maybe he _is_ the one who found them, introduced them, brought up the revolution, but he isn’t the one who first suggested they work together. They do work well together, he has to admit; even if he isn’t quite sure why they haven’t left.

Maybe he _is_ the one who saw past their brokenness to what they could do, argued that it was better to support the revolution than just strike at the Capitol. But they were all looking for something that could keep them from falling more apart; he was just the first one to suggest an answer.

Maybe he is the one who makes the strategies, gives the orders and shoulders the responsibility, but he can’t do that on his own. He’s the one who needs them.

He doesn’t know why they’re still here - but he’s glad they are.


End file.
